


Down to the Sea in Ships

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Road Trips, Sailing, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House has a secret for dealing with stress, and the first step is driving to Rhode Island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down to the Sea in Ships

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story in April of 2010 after reading an article in _The New Yorker_ magazine about companies that train commercial ship pilots. The organization in this fic is a compendium of some of those concerns, and the events in the story take place after the canon end of Season 6.

**_Down to the Sea in Ships_ **

"You're _sure_ this isn't because of me and Sam?"

House doesn't answer, which isn't a surprise -- he's hardly opened his mouth since leaving Plainsboro, and the few times that he _has_ spoken have been to snipe at Wilson for his _geriatric driving._

"Because if this is about me and Sam -- "

"It's not about you and Sam," House says. "It's not about me and Cuddy, either. There, happy now?"

"No," Wilson snaps. "Because if this _isn't_ about me and Sam, or you and Cuddy, then it's about something else that you're not facing, and I want to be prepared when you ... start facing it." 

House shifts in his seat and presses the button to roll down his passenger-side window. The roar of rushing air and road noise from the busy interstate instantly fill the car, drowning out the soothing NPR voices from the radio. Wilson grimaces and touches a control on the steering wheel, rolling the window back up. House rolls it down again.

"Damn it, House!"

"God, you're annoying," House growls, but he lets the window stay up this time.

Wilson grips the wheel tighter but doesn't say anything. All the advances House had made since the crane crash in the spring seem to have fallen by the proverbial wayside; he'd thought the storm that had blown up after the last crisis had subsided, and maybe he'd been right, up until the moment when House had lurched into his office, tossed a sheaf of Google maps on his desk and said "Come on, we're going to Rhode Island."

He sneaks a glance at House, but House is staring straight ahead at the taillights of the cars in front of them, his expression unreadable. Wilson sighs and keeps driving.

* * *

The sign for Maritime Dynamics, Inc. is a small, weathered rectangle at an unassuming turnoff a few miles east of Newport. Another sign, just as weathered, advises the only attractions beyond this point are a bird sanctuary and a wildlife refuge. Wilson decides they're using the term _attractions_ loosely. He flicks on the turn signal and makes a right, and follows the narrow, curving road down to the bay and the long, low-slung building perched amidst the scrub and rocks.

* * *

"Doctor House!" the Viking says enthusiastically. Of course, he's not _really_ a Viking, not now, but in a past life (if Wilson believed in past lives, which he most assuredly does _not_ ) he's certainly someone who looks as if he'd be right at home on the deck of a dragon-bowed longship. A bear of a man, with blond hair and bright blue eyes, he's a dead ringer for a marauding sea pirate. The Maritime Dynamics building at his back completes the illusion -- the complex rises out of the earth like a great curved hull, its dark roof leaning forward, a prow splitting the swirling wind. The air carries the tang of salt, and seagulls wheel and laugh overhead.

"Doctor House!" the Viking says again. "I'm so glad to see you again!"

The man has an accent -- something Northern European, snow and polar bears. He turns to Wilson, envelops Wilson's right hand in two enormous paws.

"Doctor Wilson!" he says. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Torfinn Gundersen, President of Maritime Dynamics, Incorporated."

 _Okay_ , Wilson thinks. _So he_ is _a Viking_.

* * *

Inside, Maritime Dynamics doesn't _look_ like a ship-full of medieval plunderers; instead, it's a cavernous space with a soaring atrium, the whole structure seemingly held upright by a single sequoia-sized mast. It's surprisingly quiet for such a large entryway, and the employees, who all seem to be dressed in subdued earth colors, move about with calm efficiency. Gundersen and Wilson are the only two men in suit and tie. Wilson stops trying to track the redwood trunk all the way to the ceiling and focuses on their host.

"We have your simulation ready to go, Doctor House," Gundersen is saying. "Are you positive you wouldn't like to try something different this time? We have a new ultra-deepwater drillship program -- "

"No," House says. He straightens his back and shrugs, a small motion that Wilson knows is an indicator of tiredness. "Now, about that offer ... "

"Of course." Gundersen nods; a young woman appears as if by magic at House's elbow, and he departs without even a backward glance. 

_You're welcome_ , Wilson thinks.

* * *

The coffee in the corporate cafeteria is delicious, smooth and nutty with a hint of chocolate.

"Mexican," Gundersen says when he sees Wilson's expression. "We have a special contract with a womens' group -- a cooperative in Mexico. It's very ... green." 

"Ah," Wilson says, and takes another sip. "It's very good."

Gundersen smiles. "You don't know what any of this is about, do you? Doctor House's visit."

"Well," Wilson says. He tries to think of something else to say. "No," he says at last. "No, I really don't. House has been ... less than communicative."

Gundersen puts down his cup.

"Maritime Dynamics," he says, "is one of the largest providers of innovative and reliable solutions for merchant marine, coastal marine, fisheries, maritime simulation and training, port and harbor surveillance and more. We were the first to develop vessel traffic shipping models in both fast and real time -- our MERMAID system has become the standard navigational aid for marine traffic. Our _historical_ simulations -- "

"Thank you," Wilson says. "No, really. Thank you."

Gundersen laughs. "It is a lot to take in," he says. "Why don't I show you, instead of filling your ears with words from a marketing brochure?" He takes out his phone, thumbs into a menu and through a scrapbook of photographs. He stops at one and holds the screen so that Wilson can see it.

A child looks solemnly back, a young girl no more than ten or twelve with corn silk hair and eyes the color of jasper.

"My daughter," the Viking says. "Krista Gundersen." He clicks the phone off and plunks it onto the cafe table. "Doctor House saved her life."

"Ah!" Wilson says again, but this time, he hopes, with more understanding.

"I owe Doctor House a favor I can never truly repay," Gundersen says, "because how does one repay for a life?"

"So House comes here ... "

"Doctor House comes here, once or twice a year, to ... avail himself of our services." Gundersen sips at his coffee again, and dabs at his lips with a napkin. "I will show you," he says.

* * *

The room they enter is small, made larger by the floor-to-ceiling flatscreens on the surrounding walls. In the center of the room is what looks for all the world like a speaker's dais, if a speaker's dais had a bank of controls on both sides and a ship's wheel, a flattened U-shape with padded arms, where the podium should be. Gundersen flicks a switch on one of the panels; the flatscreens brighten, and they're not in the sim room any more, they're _on the ocean_.

"This is one of our coursework sims," Gundersen says as Wilson works to regain control of his breathing. The simulation is virtually _real_ , a surround-sensation of sound and sight and smell. The sun is shining, glinting off the waves, the floor thrums under his feet, a red deck the length of several football fields stretches in front of him, there's the unmistakable reek of diesel in the air.

"Welcome to the _MS Berge Elv_ ," Gundersen says. "She's an ore carrier, Ponta da Madeira to Rotterdam in fourteen days, but if she misses her landing slot in the Maasgeul, the pilots have to wait another twelve hours to try again." He nods at the control panels. "We train those pilots not to miss."

"Time is money, as they say," Wilson says.

"Indeed it is," Gundersen agrees.

The floor continues to thrum underfoot. The ocean continues to wave. The ship's wheel turns, drifts left a half-inch. Something in the control panel _bings!_ , and the wheel corrects itself.

"Well," Gundersen says. "As you can probably see, this is not a scenario that would be of interest to Doctor House."

* * *

In another room, there's another ship's wheel, but here it's a real wheel, spokes radiating from a central hub, all polished wood, looking like a relic from an Errol Flynn movie. And there's another mast in this room, not quite as sequoia-like as the one in the lobby, but a majestic spar nonetheless. Wilson tilts his head back. The ceiling disappears into darkness, but there's something else up there, something moving in the wind, no, not the wind, the _air conditioning_ , keep it straight ...

"The sails," Gundersen says. He points upwards. "Mainsail," he says, "topsail, topgallant, royal. That's all we had room for. But with just a little enhancement, it produces a very good approximation of the true sound."

"The true sound," Wilson repeats, and he can hear it now, the rustling above him, the sails slowly filling with wind. 

Gundersen smiles, this time with real pleasure. "The sound," he says, "of _HMS Spur_ , late of the Napoleonic Wars, running for home before a February gale." He steps back. "If you would take the wheel, Doctor?"

Wilson rests his hand on the top handle, the smooth wood fitting naturally into the curl of his palm. He rubs his thumb across the rounded tip, feels deep grooves cut into the teak.

"That is the king spoke," Gundersen says. "So the helmsman would know the position of the rudder in the dark."

Wilson grips the spoke a little tighter; the sails flap overhead and a gull calls out, and suddenly he's eight years old again, sailing with his uncle Mervin on Long Island Sound while his mother runs along the beach and shouts _"Don't go out too far! Mervin, don't go out too far!"_ As if from a long distance he hears Gundersen say "This is Doctor House's sim," and everything changes.

* * *

The wheel jerks in Wilson's hand, a live thing struggling to escape. The floor ( _decking_ , his mind supplies, _decking_ ) rolls under his feet, swaying and bucking, making him grip the wheel tighter even as a cold rain comes pouring down, a drenching flood from the sky -- no, the _ceiling_ \-- no, the _sky_.

Thunder rolls; the wheel jerks again as the _Spur_ lurches left. _"Shit!"_ Wilson yelps; the beam of _something_ \-- a lighthouse, a signal fire, sweeps across the waves, but it's too little, too late -- the shining, slate-wet faces of rocks are looming ...

 _"It's very realistic, as you can see,"_ Gundersen shouts at the top of his lungs.

The _Spur_ bucks, falls into a wave as Wilson's stomach tries to claw its way out through his diaphragm. Something essential in the ship's timbers snaps, a huge _crack!_ as the wind howls. He's fighting the wheel, _fighting_ \--

And suddenly it's over. Gravity reasserts itself in the form of a level, steady floor. The rain stops. Wilson gulps down a breath. Another breath. Another. He takes his hands carefully from the ship's wheel, forces them to stop shaking. He's never felt closer to a heart attack in his life, even when he includes the crazy shit House has pulled through the years.

"What the _hell_ was _that?_ " he rasps.

* * *

"You know," Gundersen says, "Russell Crowe once sat in that same chair."

"Russell ... I'm sorry, what?"

Gundersen chews contemplatively on another butter cookie, swallows. His office, a study in birch and eggshell yellow, is quiet and warm.

"Russell Crowe," he says. "And Paul Bettany." He gestures at another chair and then uses that hand to take another sip of tea. "The movie, _Master and Commander_? Maritime Dynamics provided the simulations before Mister Weir began studio filming, to familiarize them with the sets." He beams at the memory. "It was one of our finest hours."

"I'm sure it was," Wilson says. "I still don't understand, though -- "

"Why you're not wet to the bone?" Gundersen nods, as if that's the question every visitor asks. "You have heard of the _rain room?_ The rain room -- it was originally an art work, an installation, at a museum in London, created by three students." 

"I -- "

"Of course!" Gundersen beams. "Yes, that was it! It is all done with _mirrors_ \-- well, not _just_ mirrors, but also 3-D cameras and motion-control sensors, all coming together to create the _total experience!_ "

"But the deck -- "

"Haptic technology," Gundersen says proudly. _"Augmented reality."_

"Okay," Wilson says. "I see." Or at least he thinks he does. "In this ... _simulation_ , House guides the ship into the harbor and ... goes away happy."

"No," Gundersen says. He sets his teacup down on the table. "Doctor House has never guided the ship into the harbor. Not once. He has never succeeded."

"But ... " Wilson begins, and stops.

"He wrecks on the rocks, every time," Gundersen says. "Always by the lighthouse. To tell the truth, I do not know why he keeps coming back." He's silent for a moment, then shrugs and smiles. "But he is always welcome here. Always. As are you, Doctor Wilson!" His smile is warm and genuine.

"Thanks," Wilson says, "but I think I'll stick to sailboats."

* * *

"I would've taken you sailing if you'd just asked," Wilson murmurs.

"Not the same," House says, settling himself into the Volvo's passenger seat. "Not unless you're ready to try drowning as a recreational activity."

Wilson starts the car; the engine turns over with a comforting Swedish purr.

"I don't get it," he says, and he doesn't. On the other hand, this is House.

"You don't have to," House says, and then he doesn't say anything else.

* * *

_**One Year Later** _

"Want me to come?" Wilson says. Not that he expects House to accept, but it's something to say in this ridiculous situation with House sitting in the car, holding a hair brush in his hand.

"If I get in trouble? I'm delivering a hair brush," House says. The fact that it's Cuddy's hair brush goes unspoken.

House opens the door, slides out from behind the wheel. Wilson watches as he limps up to Cuddy's front door, watches the vague movements of people inside the house.

After a moment House comes back.

"What just happened?" Wilson says, because something _did_ happen, that much is clear. 

House doesn't answer. He turns the hair brush over in his hands. His fingers tug at a few dark hairs caught in the bristles.

"House? What happened?"

House looks at him. His eyes are dark, unseeing, and for a long, terrible moment, Wilson is afraid. Then House blinks, and he's there again, watching Wilson.

"Come on," House says. "Come on.

We're going to Rhode Island."

 

 

~ fin


End file.
